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Mysore stomach cramps, andIfeel a little dizzy. “Pleasedon’t.”
Hejust crosses his arms, refusing to budge.
“Shit.”Isit down hard in the plastic deck chair he left in the shade, set the plant between my feet, and rest my throbbing head in my hands. “Ican’t fuck him up like that.”
Everything’squiet for a long time.Theground swirls slowly wheneverIlook at it too hard.Iprobably should have gone to the hospital or something, butI’mthe kind of guy who once stitched up my own stab wound.
Agentle hand catches my jaw and tips my face up to look at him. “Youhave to believe in your friends,Beck.Wedon’t break that easily.Andafter twelve fucking years together, you don’t have the right to decide if he deserves the truth.”
Isearch every detail of his face, trying to memorize it before he pushes me away again.There’ssomething profoundIshould say, but allIcan do is lean into him and rest my forehead against his hip.Heruns long, careful fingers through my hair just once, then steps away.He’sso focused on what other people need right now, butIcan feel raw anger and doubt suffocating him underneath the calm.
“I’mgoing to work,” he says hoarsely, backing away.Shit,Iforgot it’s his first day of training.Iwant to tell him he’ll ace it, and make a stupid joke so that he’ll laugh in surprise and roll his eyes.ButIdon’t thinkIhave the right to say anything to him now.
Oncehe’s disappeared inside to change,Iwander into the kitchen.Ihaven’t eaten anything since the ice cream yesterday, except for a few mouthfuls of cold rice from the fridge at threeAMwhichIthrew up again.Wehave a loaf of white bread on the counter, soItake out a piece, drape a slice ofAmericancheese over it, and nuke it in the microwave.Whenthe cheese is bubbling and steaming,Iopen the microwave door and stare at it for so long it deflates into a rubbery mess.
Finally,Ijust leave it there and walk down the hall toScout’sroom.Ipush open his door without knocking, soIdon’t have time to change my mind.Luckyfor me, he’s not in the middle of filming porn.Helifts his head from where he’s sprawled on the bed, editing a video on our single communal laptop, and tries to cover up a package ofOreoswith his folded arms.Whenhe realizes it’s me and notDallas, he stops hiding them and rolls over. “‘Sup, wild man?”
Ihesitate.Forthe first time since we met as feral little kids on the streets ofParadise,Ican’t meet his eyes.Idon’t know where to look or what to do with my hands.WhenIperch awkwardly on the edge of the bed, he sits up with a frown and tousles a hand through his silver hair. “Beck?What’swrong?”
Focusingon a rip in my jeans,Ipick at the edges to make it bigger asIstumble through the story of yesterday from start to finish.Becauseit’s forDallas,Idon’t leave out a single detail.OnceIstart,Ican’t stop, andIend up going back over the last few months until he knows absolutely everything.Ican’t explainwhyI’msuch a mess without rehashing my entire life, butIknowScoutwill get it.WhileRomanandDalused to have loving homes,ScoutandIgrew up in the same lonely shithole.Excepthe stayed out of the gang, because he’s always been clever and charismatic enough to know that he had a future somewhere better.
“Dallasis safe.He’sokay,”Ikeep repeating.MaybeI’mthe one that needs to hear it.WhenIfinally shut up, everything goes quiet enough to hear a crop duster buzzing in the distance.
Scoutcrawls across the bed and wraps his arms around my shoulders, propping his forehead against my temple. “Fuckyou, man,” he murmurs, his voice choked up, then hugs me tighter.
Idig my fingernails hard into my palms and lean my head against his. “I’msorry,Scout.ButDallasis okay.”
Hesighs, then sits back. “Areyouokay?”
“Um…”Irun a hand through my hair, and my breath hitches painfully. “I…Idon’t feel okay.”I’mtoo tired to do anything but lie down on the bed and curl up with my arms around my head. “MybuddyPascalcalled me this morning,”Imumble into the comforter. “Theboss heard what happened.Hewas furious that they didn’t shoot me; he said giving him an excuse to retaliate would have been the only useful thingIever did.NowI’mthe weak one, andI’llget all the shitty jobs.”
Thebed squeaks asScoutstretches out next to me. “Itold you a million times, dude.Youdon’t matter to them,” he offers with his usual brutal bluntness.
Iangle my head untilIcan see his storm-gray eyes staring at me across the wrinkled blanket. “I’vegiven those pricks everything.Tenyears.Ialmost lostDallasfor them.”
Heraises his eyebrows, his tongue playing with the silver ring in his lip. “Thatwas a bad idea, genius.”
Anoise bursts out of me that’s half a lame-ass sob and half a bark of laughter. “You’regonna be a dick now?”
Thecorner of his mouth tips up. “I’vealways been a dick.”
“Noshit.”
Grabbinghis half-empty package ofOreos, he sticks one in his mouth, then flicks one across the bed to me.Tohim, that’s as generous as giving a dying person his kidney. “Ididn’t know,” he muses between crunches, staring at the ceiling, “that you felt so trapped.”
Iopen my mouth to contradict him, because “trapped” makes me sound weak.ButwhenIthink about it, that’s the only right word–an animal in a trap, flopping around and hurting itself as it waits to die. “Thosemeetings scare the shit out of me.Idon’t want to get erased.”
Hisfingers wrap around my wrist and squeeze. “We’llfigure it out.Allof us.Noone gets left behind, okay?”
“Okay,”Iwhisper, feeling my aching body relax a little.Eversince we moved out ofParadisePeaks, it feels like my boys are running ahead andI’mstill back at the start, struggling to breathe air that doesn’t smell like a filthy trailer full of bad memories.Idon’t know how to catch up and evolve with them.
Inever ate my cookie, soScouttakes it back and stuffs it in his own face.Thenhe scoots close, so we’re snuggled together like we used to do on my mattress after school, while he finished my homework for me becauseIcould never figure it out.
Myeyes drift closed, then pop open again whenIhear a familiar chirping tune. “Shit, no way.”
Scoutgrins and tilts his phone screen toward me to show the pissed-off red bird getting ready to launch himself at the green pigs’ castle.Weused to playAngryBirdsfor hours and hours, passing the phone back and forth, arguing, and laughing until our stomachs hurt.Allof my elementary school writing exercises were aboutAngryBirdsstrategies and lore, becauseIknew fuck-all about anything else.Myteacher got so sick of me.
“You’velost your skills,”Scoutgoads, reaching under my arm to try and sabotage me with a jabbing finger.
